


if sex is a weapon then smash! boom! pow!

by Trojie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-01
Updated: 2010-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:33:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's mouth runs away with him on the subject of Eames's mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if sex is a weapon then smash! boom! pow!

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Cherrybina's Rimming Meme. Beta-read by Ineptshieldmaid.

'You. Stop mouthing off,' was the beginning of it.

'God. You're so fucking mouthy,' just escalated things.

'Don't you have something better to do with that mouth than criticize my flowcharts?' could, on reflection, probably have been better put.

Arthur, spreadeagled on a hotel bedspread with his face buried in a pillow, wondering if it's possible to implode into a quantum singularity because of medically-dangerous levels of arousal, is in an excellent position to review his conversational gambits with Eames over the past few weeks. He finds them a good deal less varied than he would ideally like. Mouthing off, mouthy, shut your mouth ... Perhaps Eames was right, an hour ago when he'd undone Arthur's fly, and Arthur is a little fixated.

Arthur doesn't give a shit. Fixation or no fixation, his remarks were pertinent. Ariadne rolling her eyes at the pair of them is not actually _evidence_ that there is some kind of juvenile schoolyard flirting going on.

He yanks his mind back to the situation at hand, and takes stock.

His tie is rumpled somewhere under his left nipple, he is starting to regret the levels of starch in his collar, and there will probably be a line of little red indents left by the buttons of his shirt when (if) Eames finally lets him up. He is, however, entirely pantsless. _Sans_ trousers in every way, bare-assed, a picture of ridiculousness because he does actually still have his socks on. This is not how he'd pictured his first time with Eames going. Insofar as he's pictured it, of course, which he really hasn't. No, honestly.

...

Okay, so maybe there was more actual fucking going on in the sort of vague pencil-sketch he might have mused about. He wasn't particularly picky about who was doing what in that scenario, but there was definitely fucking. Activity of some kind. Sex, in a word. Arthur doesn't just doff his trousers passively for Eames's sordid aesthetic pleasures. But instead of having an athletic good time, he's got his rear-end on view and his own vision obscured by a pillow he's having an increasingly difficult time not biting, and no-one is getting fucked.

'You rather like this, don't you,' Eames says from behind the bed, where he is apparently just staring. 'I can see you wriggle.'

'Bullshit.'

'Language, pet.'

'Just get over here, Eames. Jesus.' Arthur is feeling bossy. Okay, so he often feels bossy, but he's not sure who's supposed to be in charge in this scenario. Arthur can top, and Arthur can bottom - hell, Arthur can dom and Arthur's subbed before now as well - he just needs to know which script he's reading from and then he can blow Eames's mind.

'All in good time.' Eames's voice is closer this time, and then the bed dips a bit. Arthur squirms down against the mattress, scriptless and hard.

'Interesting. You haven't moved,' Eames says, running a finger along the tendons behind Arthur's knee. 'I haven't tied you up, and you clearly want to do something, but you don't.'

Arthur doesn't because Arthur is not in the lead here. He's a fucking point man, c'mon.

'It's your move, asshole,' Arthur bites out, feeling the blush rise. Eames is right. He does what he's told. You tell Arthur you want to know everything about a mark, he'll find out what they ate for breakfast, their great-grandmother's middle name and the vaccination dates of their Chihuahua. You tell Arthur you need a getaway car, he'll find you something with six cylinders, nitrous injection, conveniently easily adjusted numberplates and styling by Pininfarina. You tell Arthur to get on the bed, he gets on the damn bed. It's that simple.

Eames has apparently worked out this little fact, but now he's dicking around. Well. If Eames isn't going to tell him the game they're playing then Arthur will choose a game, and it's going to be the game of 'never back down, never surrender.'

Arthur is aware that sex isn't usually played like a wargame. Arthur doesn't care. Arthur is competitive like that.

'I think I'm going to have to rethink my strategy,' Eames says, and now his voice is directly behind Arthur, and there's a warmth over Arthur's hips that suggests that either Eames is straddling him or, and this possibility is intriguing, bracing his arms either side of Arthur's ass.

There's a sudden check-mark in the box for Option Two when hot, wet breath gusts over Arthur's bare skin, and then Eames kisses him at the very base of his spine. Arthur bites the pillow as nonchalantly and unaffectedly as he can, and mentally (grudgingly) awards Eames a few points. Eames's warmth moves off a little. (This loses him those points again. You don't score in this game unless you, well ... score.)

Eames blows a stream of cold air over the place he's just kissed. 'Any time you want to launch a counteroffensive, Arthur, do feel free,' he says, a rumble of humour somewhere deep in his tone. Arthur decides to bide his time just for that. Guerrilla warfare is a speciality of his anyway.

Also it sounds like Eames might possibly have rumbled him.

'Do your worst,' he says, when it becomes clear that Eames is waiting for a response, and fuck, that's so cliche, he might as well have said 'Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.' As it is, Eames presumably understands the sentiment behind the words, cliche or not, because he chuckles and lowers his head again.

It's the temperature Arthur becomes aware of first - the movement is so soft and the wetness barely nudging the edge of sensation until evaporation sets in - Eames is moving slowly, quartering Arthur's ass like a man on patrol, methodical, licking a march over to the centre, where his fingers are gently, gently edging deeper.

Making a noise would be friendly fire right now, but Arthur can't help it. He manages to let the groan bubble out into the pillow rather than the air, but the curve of Eames's grin against Arthur's skin proves that it was audible. Arthur resolves to make no more noises at just about the time that Eames spreads him properly and opens his mouth.

'Sweet- Jesus _fuck_ , Eames, _Eames_ , fuck, what are you-'

Arthur knows what Eames is doing. Of course he does. He fights down his body's stupid insistence on babbling nonsense and shoves himself back, feeling Eames's chin bump somewhere sensitive, and carefully shifts his weight onto the left leg. No way is he just going to sit here and take it without giving some back.

His right, besocked, foot, he eases back carefully, finding Eames's knee, tracing up his thigh, until he can press it against the bulge in Eames's trousers, still firmly done up. He gently clenches his toes.

Eames makes a noise best rendered phonetically as 'Ngngk', but which barely comes out. Instead, the vibrations of the sound press themselves into Arthur's body with Eames's tongue, wet and shivery and circling, stroking and wetting and hitting nerve-endings Arthur only knew he had in a sort of intellectual and medical sense previously but which now he'll never be able to forget. Arthur's abdominal muscles clench with the effort of not crumpling up like an old newspaper from Eames's touch.

Warfare is forgotten - Arthur pushes and strokes and makes a valiant attempt at getting Eames's fly undone using only his toes before Eames does it himself with a mewl of frustration that shakes Arthur to his core, shoved as it is into his flesh, and drags Arthur's sock off.

Arthur has never attempted to pleasure a man with his foot before. There's a first time for everything. He doesn't care, provided Eames _never stops_ doing that thing that he's doing right now.

Eventually it's Arthur whose nervous system suffers a fatal overdose first - he feels his body attempt to fold itself in half, clenching everything tight as he comes with bruise-lights in front of his eyes all over the bed. He falls forward, shaking with it, and with a strangled noise Eames pulls himself up and over Arthur's prone form. Arthur manages to pull himself round enough to look over his shoulder - Eames has his hand wrapped around himself, his face is red and wet-looking, and their eyes meet for a split-second before Eames is coming all over Arthur's arse and thighs and shirt-tails.


End file.
